Time Crumbles Things
by Nekon
Summary: Sam knew he was going to die since he was 5


Title - Time Crumbles Things  
By - Sage Jackson

Description –Sam knew he was going to die since he was 5.

Don't really know where this came from. The idea of Sam knowing more and not saying anything just kind of sticks me as canon. A few people have written this idea and I've loved them all, though they drive me nuts because they never feel resolved. So of course I have to go and do what I hate.

I hope you enjoy!

The fear of death is more to be dreaded than death itself.

**Publilius Syrus **(100 BC)

Sam crumbled the fortune cookie absently in his left hand, staring blanking at the small slip of paper in the right. The words on it made him laugh

"_You will live a long and prosperous life."_

The chances of that were small to nil. He wondered absently if someone terminally ill had ever received that fortune, and what they had thought and felt upon reading those words. Probably similar to what he was feeling. A feeling of almost incredulous disdain, to be confronted with such a lie. It was almost funny.

"What?" Dean looked at him across the table, his own fortune cookie long gone, inhaled in a matter of seconds. It was a wonder the fortune itself had managed to escape at all.

"Sam? What?" Dean asked more insistently, a look on impatience on his face.

Dean was not the type to bare his soul. Sam knew that; had always known that. Dean did not believe in sitting and expressing ones own feelings. In a heart to heart. Emotions were simply not Dean's forte, and Sam never truly begrudged him that. Well, most of the time; every once in a while it would be nice to freakin talk, but generally Sam didn't like the idea of making Dean go against his nature. Besides, it's not as if he was an open book about things he found private, so he couldn't fairly expect conversation simply because _he_ wished to broach the subject.

Oh, it wasn't that Dean didn't care. As much as he'd BS about no "chick flick moments", he was always to first to ask if Sam was okay. There was no doubt he cared. Likely too much. It scared Sam sometimes how much Dean placed Sam's life above his own. It was at moments were Dean placed himself in-between Sam and the attacking monster-of-the-weak that Sam truly hated his father; hated him for conditioning Dean to hold his life in such little value.

And it was for that very reason that Sam never told Dean that he'd had visions of his own death since he was 5.

They had always been darkness, penetrated by flashes of pain, blood and fire. They woke him up with a violent start in the middle of the night, heart pounding and lungs searching for air. There would be so much terror that he would find himself immobilized, unable to move, to think. He would remain there until Dean's internal alarm would go off and the older boy would slip over to investigate, holding the younger boy in his arms and eventually drifting off in Sam's bed. It was soothing sounds of Dean's heavy breathing that would eventually allow the small boy to drift off.

The dreams had disappeared slightly when he had gotten older, almost completely when Sam had run off to school, but reappeared again after Max. He was unsure if it was because his powers were coming online again and stronger, or if it was just getting closer to the intended date. Perhaps he had simply just accepted that the visions were apart of him, that he needs to know what they were telling him, warning him. The more he had craved to know, the more the visions had revealed, little by little.

He had always known that he would be consumed by the fire. It never occurred to him to doubt it, even when he didn't understand what he would see in the darkness of night, as he did now. From the very beginning he had sensed that if it didn't get him, it would destroy his family. Destroy Dean. And that was simply unacceptable. For as much as Dean attempted to protect him, it was simply a delaying tactic for the eventual day where Sam would finally be able to protect his older brother. And he would do it, no doubts.

But he could not deny the fear he felt in his heart. Some likely the basic fear of death, of ceasing to exist, but he had long gotten over feeling any shame about that, it was simply a fact of life for him now. No, what stayed with him was the fear for his family. As much as he argued with his father, he knew his death, or whatever he wanted to call it, would hurt the old man. But his father was strong, and most importantly stubborn, and John would likely simply immerse himself in the hunt again. Not exactly healthy, but at least a coping technique of sorts.

Dean though… Dean's reaction frightened him. Sam's death would wound him in places that were buried deep inside the older brother, and he couldn't help feeling a vague horror that those wounds would never heal. That the active, brilliant, obnoxious man would be permanently crippled, and never take advantage of the life that Sam was willing to die for in order to give him.

This had replaced Sam's nightmares, and like a hot poker, needled him during the day.

He needed to talk to Dean, to make sure Dean would survive and move on. But how in the hell did be broach a subject like that? Mostly without giving away exactly why the subject was appearing in the first place. If Dean every found out Sam's intention… well, lets just say that he wouldn't have the worry about the fire anymore. He would never be allowed outside the Impala again. He would be chained to the front seat, or Dean's right foot. Dean would sit reading a magazine while he showered; give him a personal escort to the bathroom. A bodyguard-

"Sam!"

Sam blinked and looked up, meeting Dean's intent gaze. With a slight start, he remembered he was still sitting in the Chinese restaurant, fingering the fortune.

Dean was leaning forward, one hand clutching Sam's left. And in his gaze was a glint of concern, just hinting at the unweilding devotion he held for his younger brother. And all thoughts of even attempting to talk to him fled Sam's mind. Perhaps Sam's death would cripple Dean, but that was still better than death.

"What? Sorry Dean." He zeros in on the egg roll on Dean's plate. "Do you know how much grease in on that?"

Dean immediately leaned back, an obnoxious smirk crossing over his face. He reached down and very very slowly picked up the egg roll, before stuffing the entire thing in his mouth. Bits fell out and spittle flew as Dean opened his mouth to display the partially eaten food.

"You are such a dick Dean." Sam rolled his eyes in disgust.

"Bitch."

Sam guessed he couldn't complain about Dean's devotion to him, because he was just as devoted to his older brother.

Must not all things at the last be swallowed up in death?

**Plato **(427 bc - 347 bc)


End file.
